Page 50 of Wicked Pickle

“What are you studying exactly? What’s political science all about?”

She seems taken aback by the question. “Lots of things. Political structure. Government, how it works. Today’s issues and the past. Right now, I’m studying totalitarian regimes. Imperialism mainly.”

“What do you aim to do with this information?”

“Work at the capitol, maybe. Or inside the judiciary. I could clerk, move into certain types of law.”

“But what do you want to actuallydo?”

This question gets her. She picks up my beer and takes another swallow before answering.

“I guess I want to be like Hamilton.”

“From the musical?” I’ve watched maybe half of it.

“Not the person. More like the place. I want to be in the room where it happens. Where real things happen. Things that matter. Not as the face of it. But the wheels that make it turn.”

Oh. “That’s a big deal.”

“It can be for the right person in the right position.” She scoots the beer toward me. “It’s what all of us have in common. Me, Bailey, Jenna, Marietta. We want to know the truth of things, not because somebody makes a meme about it or ranted on a video or even reported on it in the media. Because we were there. We saw it with our own eyes. Heard the testimony. Read the record.”

“But seeing it isn’t affecting it.”

“It is if you help the staff draft the bill. If you make sure it’s got the right appropriations, the proper budget, that it is championed by the right people.”

“And you want to do that? For just anything?”

“I have my issues. All four of us do. When you’re bombarded by things that need fixing, you have to choose the battles you’re going to suit up for.”

“And yours are?”

She shrugs. “Still deciding. Bailey is all about ethical business practices, a healthy workplace, and safety. Jenna wants to take on the national parks, climate change, and public lands.”

“But you have no idea?”

“Family court, probably. Foster care. Child abuse. Breaking poverty cycles. But I’m not sure.”

That’s heavy. I give her some space to say more, but when she doesn’t, I ask, “Why those?”

She peels the corner of the label off the beer. “I’ve seen some things. Dealt with some things.”

Heat rises in me. I lean closer. “Did somebody hurt you?” I’m ready to get out of here. Get in my truck. Kick some motherfucking ass.

“I spent five years in the foster system,” she says. “Nothing too terrible. But my sister.” She frowns. “We got separated. She was older. I went to a family. She went to a group home.”

“But she’s an adult now. Where is she?”

“Tennessee, last I heard. She’s … broken. She’s … an addict.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. By the time I aged out, she was long gone. I hadn’t seen her in years.”

“But you found her?”

“I did. In a small-town lockup. But I couldn’t get her out. I didn’t have bail money. I didn’t have anything.”

“Where were your parents?”

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